


Masquerade

by mllelaurel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Balthus Knows Yuri a Little Too Well, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), M/M, Mob Meetings, Roles and Disguises, elements of d/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27928330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllelaurel/pseuds/mllelaurel
Summary: Yuri's eyes linger a moment on Balthus’s face before he shrugs and turns to the vanity. An arsenal of pins holds his wig perfectly in place. He picks them out one at a time, checking to make sure the heads haven’t come off, then dumps them all in a linen bag. His real hair beneath shines silver in the artificial lighting.“Here,” he says, “help me out of this thing.” Yuri gestures at a couple buttons set low at the small of his back. “I can’t quite…”Balthus’s mouth goes dry. “How’d you get into that to begin with?”“Luck and patience,” Yuri says shortly. “Gotta say, I’m not flush on the latter right now.”His bare back is silky-smooth where Balthus brushes it with suddenly-clumsy fingers. He takes longer than he should, careful not to rip a pearly button from its moorings, afraid to break the moment in half. Something crazy jitters up inside him as Yuri’s skin trades warmth with his own and it’s all he can do not to press his lips between the bird wing jut of Yuri’s shoulder blades.Or: A dame walks into a bar. Balthus questions his sexuality (but not very hard,) his decisions (always,) and his loyalties (not at all.)
Relationships: Balthazar von Adalbrecht | Balthus von Albrecht/Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	Masquerade

So here’s the mission. 

The Mockingbird’s got many faces. Yuri’s most obviously, with his foxlike grace and eerie lilac eyes, but every trusted subordinate gets a crack at it now and again. It muddies the waters. Is the mysterious thief a man? A woman? A swordsman? A mage? Noble or common? Faerghus gets to see the real Yuri a bit more than anyone else. His connections go deep there, shielding him from the long and brutal arm of the law. 

Well, Faerghus is hot water right now, forcing them to expand their operations whether they like it or not. You ask Balthus, Adrestia ain’t an improvement. Yuri’s been a whirl of ever-changing masks since they arrived, always in motion, walking like he’s got needles under his skin. This place has done him no favors, Balthus gathers, so he’ll take it for all he can. 

Balthus isn’t paid enough to ask just what the fuck Yuri’s doing in Hrym—and considering he gets a percentage of the take, that’s saying a lot. Word has it, the whole territory’s ready to blow. Feels like everywhere they turn, Balthus sees the old governor’s face burning in effigy. So _that’s_ where Yuri’s gotta poke his beak. Eh, it’s his business. Balthus is just here to make sure no one stabs him. Give or take the occasional errand. 

Tonight, ‘occasional errand’ means taking a turn playing the boss himself. Gave Balthus a real pause when Yuri first asked. He’s a bruiser, not an actor. Could probably still pull out ‘jovial Leicester lordling’ if he tried real hard, but that’s about it, as far as his facades go. Gonna sound Leicester either way. He’s never been any good at covering up the accent, nor the dialect. 

‘Go with the bruiser,’ Yuri had told him. So that’s the Mockingbird of the hour. Rough and craggy. Dangerous, but maybe not that smart. Sure, Balthus can swing that, easy. 

The way they planned it, Yuri’s gonna feed him his script once he gets here. Then they’re off, the both of them. The boss’ll have a pretty little gal on his arm tonight—that’d be Yuri’s role. No one pays arm candy or bodyguards any mind, and a tiny thing like him’d be more noticeable playing the bodyguard. This way he gets to hear all they have to say firsthand, as well as step on Balthus’s toes if he starts fucking up. Balthus is pretty cozy with that last part if he’s honest. Intrigue ain’t where he lives, though it follows Yuri like the scent of his perfume. 

If all goes as planned, negotiations will resolve tonight, or so Yuri tells him. If all goes as planned… Balthus takes a swig of his drink. Like as not, Yuri’ll be satisfied with a job well-done. Someone who doesn’t know him well might not even notice the way he tends to go all prickles in the aftermath of a ruse like this. See, Yuri gets a kick out of being underestimated, but he doesn’t _like_ it. Nameless and pretty may do the trick, but it sets a hunch in his shoulders even if he won’t admit it. 

Not his place, telling Yuri how to run his business, Balthus reminds himself. _Drink your damn ale and get ready, Albrecht._

That’s when the dame walks into the bar. Just like the bawdy song goes, save that he’d recognize this delicate frame even in shitty lighting. It’s nothing obvious, don’t get him wrong. Sure, the height and build are familiar, but it’s the stance that clues him in. That’s what years of fighting side by side will do for you. 

Her hair is sleek and dark, hanging past the waist. Probably a wig, but a good one. A charcoal gray gown bares her arms, revealing thin, shimmery bangles over an unmistakable swell of muscle. She turns, and the dress is cut low in the back—thin shoulder blades and the illusion of cleavage despite the high haltered neckline. The band of cloth high around Yuri’s throat will also do well to hide the bob of it. It’s a nice touch. 

She looks like the sort of woman to kiss your lips with all the tenderness in the world, put a knife to your throat, and laugh like church bells when you tell her you like both in equal measure. 

Balthus sits back, hoists his feet onto the table, and waits for the newcomer to come to him. 

She does—he does—taking his time, taking ownership of the floor between them. Fine leather gloves cling to Yuri’s hands, making them seem even smaller. Heeled boots kick up sawdust. Different makeup, powdery-pale skin, lipstick so dark it brings drying blood to mind. Yuri’s showing off, making the barflies stare as he saunters across the room toward Balthus. 

Not like Balthus is immune, for all he should know better. Good thing his own role calls for some staring. After all, no gangster worth his salt would bring a date to a business meeting unless he was _real_ compromised by her. Or he was trying to insult his associates by splitting his attention. Or she was the power behind the throne, which is way too close to the honest truth. Best steer away from it. 

“Almost time,” Yuri says. He’s taken a lighter tone of voice than his usual. It’s still got that low, husky quality, like maybe this gal ain’t always gone by a woman’s name, but damned if Balthus could guess for sure if he didn’t already know. Come to think of it, that’s not all that different from the way Yuri pitches down to a growl when he’s ordering his rogues around. Yuri’s flexible—a face, a sound, a weapon for whatever’s needful. 

Right, time to focus. “Lay it on me, boss.” 

Yuri shoves his feet off the table before taking a seat. “Manners, Balthus, really. We’re in a public establishment.” 

The sound of a broken bottle punctuates his statement. They’re in public all right, and the public’s pissed, horny, and dying for something better to drink. Home, sweet home away from home. Balthus grins. “That the going plan? Teaching me some manners?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Yuri says, “I don’t go in for lost causes.” That’s a damn dirty lie right there. He’s never met a sucker for a lost cause like Yuri Leclerc, whether it’s Abyss, Western Faerghus, Hrym, or one lost, washed up brawler formerly of the Albrecht name. 

Yuri goes to scrub a hand through his hair, remembers the wig, and thinks better. “I wish I could do this on my own.” But a lady boss is more noticeable, even in Adrestia, and Edelgard knows what Yuri looks like as himself. It’s not worth his hide. 

“Never thought you the sort to turn down free backup,” Balthus says. 

Yuri’s painted mouth tilts at the corners. “Since when are you free?”

 _I’d still go with you if you didn’t pay me_ , Balthus thinks, and keeps the thought to himself. He’d _do_ it, but that doesn’t mean he ain’t got bills and bets, and the occasional round of whiskey. You don’t find money just lying on the road. Believe him, he’s looked. “Still your bodyguard regardless, yeah?”

“That you are, friend.” There’s something oddly genuine and vulnerable in the way he says it. Yuri never lets pride get in the way of survival, but that doesn’t make him any good at admitting he needs someone to watch his back. Good thing he doesn’t have to say it with Balthus around. 

Balthus doesn’t ask if he should stay on high alert tonight. He’s always on alert. It’s safer this way, for him and Yuri both. “Now,” Yuri says in a lilting voice. “Aren’t you going to offer to buy the lady a drink?” Mascara-darkened lashes flutter appealingly in Balthus’s general direction. 

Balthus leans on his elbows. “I dunno. Is the lady paying?” Hah, like he’d ever make a friend pay for drinks. 

Yuri purses his lips. “Cheapskate.”

“That’s me,” Balthus says, and flips a coin to the girl behind the counter. 

They split a bottle as they give their plans one last coat of paint. Be a lot easier if Balthus’s part in all of this was keeping his mouth shut, ears open, start punching if things go south, but he can manage. 

As the sun sets and the talking winds down, Balthus stands to offer Yuri his arm. The gloved hand settling at the crook of his elbow feels weirdly intimate. Been a while since he’s escorted a gal this classy, and it’s never been what you’d call a comfortable affair in the past. Something in Yuri’s carriage makes him want to stand up straighter, cut a sharper image, match his stride perfectly so he never has to scramble or trip after him. And make no mistake—Yuri’s setting the pace tonight. With every step, every click of the boot heels, he takes command, blends it flawlessly into the alloy of his spine. Iron wrapped in a kid glove can still crack a jaw. 

It’s a short walk to their meeting place. Still in Bergliez territory, so their surroundings are affluent enough, neutral enough for negotiations. The men they’re in talks with have set up shop in a cheap hotel. “Rookie mistake,” Yuri tells him. It signals inexperience, a group lacking their own power base despite being local. But at least it will be private. 

Seeing the men themselves face-to-face does nothing to change Balthus’s mind, even as Yuri lowers his lashes, fading into the background, and he takes center stage. They’re so _young_. Younger than Balthus himself, and gawkier than he’s ever been, even in the most dumbass of his years. The leader’s got fire crackling between his teeth as he details von Aegir’s mistreatment of the Hrym populace. The second-in-command’s distracted. Can’t take his eyes off of Yuri, hook-line-and-sinker for the barest hint of a smile. 

Yuri’s made the right call, telling him to go all-out Leicester. These guys wouldn’t trust a fellow Adrestian as far as they can throw ‘im, and a Faerghan hiking all this way would raise some questions. Leicester is a pleasant mystery hereabouts. Source of all their tea and a bit of a joke, no more than that. Balthus’s rough cadences put them at ease as he parrots back the questions Yuri taught him earlier, prodding and testing and evaluating. 

“They don’t have a plan,” Yuri tells him as they finally walk out into the cooling night. “Three years since von Aegir’s gone on the lam, and they’re still harping on killing him. Does he deserve it? Probably. But then what?”

“Turn bandit would be my guess,” Balthus ventures. 

Yuri’s mouth twists. “Keep stripping their own land and throwing their own people on the Empire’s sword. This shit was old back in Faerghus. It’s not going to impress me here.” 

“So now what?” Balthus asks. 

“They’re just so…” Yuri rubs his eyes, tired enough to smudge the paints with the back of his hand. “...Cute,” he says. “They’re adorable, and they’re already dead.” 

Those kids are lookin’ for a revolution for revolution’s sake. If they went about it smarter, Yuri would probably back them, cute bravado and all. He’d even justify it as good for Abyss. Keep Adrestia busy with internal affairs, keep its eyes off what used to be Garreg Mach. But smarter they ain’t, and it looks like Yuri meant it after all, what he said back at the bar. He’ll fight for a long-shot cause, but not a lost one. 

“Let’s go home,” Balthus says. 

Home in this case means a rented room. It’s a good enough place to rest your head and store all your shit, and it’s got baths attached, which Yuri is downright gleeful about. 

Yuri’s shoulder is warm when Balthus lays a careful hand on it. Time was, in the early days of Abyss, Yuri wouldn’t let anyone touch him. He’d squiggle like a cat, hovering out of reach, all the while refusing to leave the room. An attempted hair ruffle once earned Balthus a bent-back finger, all threats implicit. Which, fair enough, Balthus had that coming. 

It wasn’t noble squeamishness, either. Those affectations barely lay skin-deep. Fear seemed a far more likely culprit, some past pain nipping at Yuri’s heels. Might still be truth to that. Yuri’s seen some shit, no two ways about it. But it was the present, not the past, driving him in Abyss. Yuri had been scared all right, and it made him keep his distance—for the fear of failing those he’d taken under his wing. For the guilt of having to betray them. Aelfric’s pawn, Rhea’s agent. For a man who spins a yarn like no one’s business, Yuri must’ve hated lying to his Wolves. 

Balthus can’t think of many men who’d smile after he’s punched their lights out. Not sane men anyway, and none outside the boxing ring. But Yuri had smiled like he knew they’d both be cleaner for it. Made it awful hard for Balthus to hold a grudge after that. Ah well, he’s a sucker anyway.

And sure enough, the next time Balthus’s shoulder bumped his over dinner, Yuri leaned into it. He started reaching out, too, tweaking Constance’s curls to make her threaten gruesome death, hugging Hapi when all the side-eyes got to her, propping his feet in Balthus’s lap while working out a battle plan. Yuri’s a friendlier guy than he’d ever like to admit, and he’d been starving himself of all contact. Helping him make up for it now is the least Balthus can do. 

They linger there a moment, Yuri’s frame slumping a little under Balthus’s touch—a moment of weakness no one else will get to see. “We’ll be going home for real soon enough,” Yuri says at last. Back to Abyss and the fighting ring, back to chasing down bandits and glowering from behind Yuri’s back while he makes sketchy deals with Alliance lords. That’s what home has become, and Balthus is pretty okay with it. “I bet your horse will be thrilled.” 

Balthus snorts. He may be a shitty rider, but Yuri’s worse. “Hah! You should talk, ya potato sack.” 

“I’m allergic to horses,” Yuri grumbles. 

He is, too. “Doesn’t mean you’re not also crap with ‘em.” 

Yuri elbows him, but he doesn’t pull away. Balthus counts that as a victory, even as they put the meeting behind them, step by disheartened step. 

***

Turns out the inn they’re staying at has been outfitted with Thunder-lights, like the ones at Garreg Mach, along with the baths Yuri had exclaimed over. Balthus whistles between his teeth. “That’s some fancy shit.” Not like he would have minded lighting a fire and some lanterns. He likes keeping his hands busy. 

‘Sides, this sort of fancy happens to be painfully familiar. The Albrechts have always been a ‘no cost spared for luxury’ kinda clan. Balthus doesn’t miss the estate with its cavernous rooms and disapproving faces, but the memory still somehow manages to tie his guts into purse-strings. 

Yuri scans the room, hands on his hips. “Too much?” he asks. Balthus can tell he’s still thinking of Hrym. No such finery to be found there, that’s for sure. 

Balthus forces a smile. “Nah. We deserve something nice after all that work.” Yuri does, at any rate. He’s got a lot of money flowing through his twisty little crime fingers, and keeps almost none of it for himself. Abyss is a hungry brat, forever howling for milk. Thing is, a baby needs its parents, and Balthus doubts Abyss and its denizens could survive without Yuri, now that the Church is gone. Most folks don’t take on extra work, though, just because they can and the world is screaming. That’s all Yuri. 

“Glad you think so,” Yuri says, deceptively light. His eyes linger a moment on Balthus’s face before he shrugs and turns to the vanity. An arsenal of pins holds his wig perfectly in place. He picks them out one at a time, checking to make sure the heads haven’t come off, then dumps them all in a linen bag. His real hair beneath shines silver in the artificial lighting. 

“Here,” he says, “help me out of this thing,” and Balthus, who was just about to strip down and turn in for the night, takes a step toward him without thinking. Yuri gestures at a couple buttons set low at the small of his back. “I can’t quite…”

Balthus’s mouth goes dry. “How’d you get into that to begin with?”

“Luck and patience,” Yuri says shortly. “Gotta say, I’m not flush on the latter right now.” 

His bare back is silky-smooth where Balthus brushes it with suddenly-clumsy fingers. He takes longer than he should, careful not to rip a pearly button from its moorings, afraid to break the moment in half. Something crazy jitters up inside him as Yuri’s skin trades warmth with his own and it’s all he can do not to press his lips between the bird wing jut of Yuri’s shoulder blades. 

Well, this is a thing. See, you tend to know what you’re into by the time you hit thirty, and it’s been all women all the time for The King of Grappling—up until now. Until close enough to now. Until... _Dick, please advise._

“You done back there?” Yuri asks, and Balthus snaps out of it. How’d that saying go? A guy thinks he knows himself, and the Goddess laughs. Bet She’s snort-giggling in Her sleep right now, all at his sorry-ass expense. 

“All clear,” he says. 

Yuri turns to look at him over his shoulder. His eyes are a deep, dark smudge of mascara and amethyst. “Get some rest,” he says. “We’ve more work ahead of us tomorrow.” 

It’s as clear a dismissal as Balthus has ever gotten. Perfect time to go do as Yuri says, to steady himself and look away. So why can’t he do either? 

“Or could it be…” Yuri’s voice trails off, quiet and deep as Balthus has ever heard it go. 

“I’m not tired,” Balthus hears himself say. It’s a lie and not a very smooth one, but sleep is the last thing on his mind. If he quits now… He can’t force himself to finish that sentence. 

“I see.” Yuri’s lashes dance low, brushing his cheeks. One slim hand reaches out—when did he remove his gloves? Balthus can’t remember. Long fingers brush his jaw, leaving Balthus keenly aware of all his stubble and scars. “Tell me if I’m mistaken,” Yuri says, and then he’s pulling Balthus down toward him, hands fisted in hair and shirt collar, and Yuri’s mouth is on his, tasting of wine and heat. He kisses like he fights, sharp and teasing, playful and deadly. His tongue traces the line of Balthus’s teeth, then darts away before Balthus can catch him. His inhale steals Balthus’s breath away. “Well?” Yuri asks. 

“You’re not…” Balthus swallows. “This ain’t you barking up the wrong tree. Look, I. Fuck.” 

Yuri’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Have I already rendered you unable to speak? That’s a good sign.” 

“I can speak just fine.”

“As well as you ever could.” A sparkle in Yuri’s eye, and Balthus can’t bring himself to mind the ribbing. He could put on airs and graces all day long if he set his mind on it. That shit’s been beat into his head since he was toddling ‘round the old mansion. But what the hell’s the point anymore—it’s just another mask, one he only wears on Yuri’s orders these days. 

“You ever done anything with a man before?” Yuri asks. 

“That obvious, huh?” Balthus’s hands curl around Yuri’s waist, and Yuri’s eyes widen a fraction, a split-second flash of vulnerability before it’s shuttered. 

“Anyone can see who you go off with after a night at the Rose,” Yuri says, nonchalant. Theoretically that should cut both ways. Balthus struggles to remember if he’s ever seen Yuri leave with anyone at all. The man’s too discreet for his own good. 

“You’d be my first,” Balthus admits. 

Yuri toys with a few loose threads of Balthus’s hair. It’s gone messy again after being slicked back for the day, but Yuri doesn’t seem to mind. “I promise I’ll be gentle, in that case.” 

Balthus laughs, nervous tension easing. “You really don’t gotta.” 

Heat shimmers behind Yuri’s eyes. “Don’t I now?” He’s starting to relax as well, languid and playful. Balthus takes the opportunity to pull him closer, and Yuri retaliates with a kiss full of teeth. 

“Fuck yeah, just like that.” Look, with the kind of dames he’s into, soft and demure ain’t never been on the menu. He wouldn’t know what to do with it if he got it. Filthy and creative is a lot more like it—and a lot more fun. 

Yuri pulls back, studying him. Violet eyes gone dark linger on Balthus’s face, cataloguing his reactions. He doesn’t take long. Just long enough for Balthus’s stomach to twist itself in knots. Not like Yuri would be the first to find him wanting, but gotta admit, this one would hurt more than average. 

“Took your sweet time making up your mind,” Yuri says at last. 

“So I’m dense. Rub it in why dontcha?” It’s settled at this point, isn’t it? If something in him was gonna run screaming for the hills at the thought of messing around with a guy, it would’ve done so by now. “Don’t tell me you wanted a piece of this action since the day you laid eyes on me.” 

Yuri’s eyes scrunch at the corners in genuine amusement. “No, not since day one.” Makes sense. He was way too skittish back then, and for good reason. “Remember when you wore that summer uniform?”

It was back at Garreg Mach, in the last warm, lazy afternoons of early fall. Balthus can’t even remember why he did it. Nostalgia perhaps. It’d been a damn good year, his first time around, showing off and getting into trouble with Holst. He still can’t believe the Professor’d gone out of her way to get all the uniforms issued for the four Wolves, even if they weren’t real Garreg Mach students.

“You looked every inch the young lordling.” Yuri leans in close, his breath tickling Balthus’s ear. “Pressed and fine, and ready to ride to your hunting lodge out in the country. I wanted to rip it off of you.” His voice goes dark, burrowing beneath Balthus’s skin. 

“Should’ve done it,” Balthus tells him. It’s a helluva hot mental image, someone as composed as Yuri throwing all inhibitions to the wind. 

“What, and give the whole school a show?”

“Yeah, and? This way everyone wins.” Balthus flexes for good measure. 

“Like they haven’t already seen you practically naked.”

“Shirts are for chumps.” Case in point, he hadn’t even noticed Yuri loosening the buttons of his, subtle little sneak-thief that he is. No ripping this time, which is just as well. They only brought so many changes with ‘em. But _damn_ , that’s a thought for later. 

The room’s not a huge one. Enough to fit one bed. Two would have been a dreadfully mundane sort of luxury, and sharing’s never been a big deal. No different than two bedrolls spread out side-by-side at a campfire. Tonight… Yeah, that makes for a bit of different. 

Looks like Yuri’s eye has drifted there as well. He gives Balthus a light shove toward it, bare hand on Balthus’s bare chest. His touch is heat and sparks, like the inn’s captive Thunder spells going berserk in glorious concert. Balthus goes more’n willingly, though he can’t resist grabbing that warm hand and tugging Yuri forward with him. 

Yuri makes a startled noise. Totally not a squawk, or so he’s gonna claim later. “Dangerous games,” he says. “What if I was the sort of man who’d stab you if you spook him?” He hasn’t gone tense. Not really. That much Balthus can tell. 

“Eh. You saw me coming.” 

Yuri raises a single eyebrow, still dark with mascara. “Not yet I haven’t.”

“Hah! Look at you, going for the low-hanging fruit.” So much for Yuri’s dignity and composure. It startles Balthus enough to make him guffaw like he’s Alois Rangeld. And it’s a relief, truth be told. Composure’s another wooden mask. Wear it long enough and you start to suffocate. 

Yuri’s nostrils flare in annoyance. “So you said you didn’t need gentle…” he drawls, sliding onto the bed in a whisper of fake silk. Balthus gives a happy shudder as painted nails scrape up the back of his neck and Yuri’s hands fist in his hair. A hard tug, and he’s bent like a bow over him, one hand on the bed frame for balance. He fights against it just to feel Yuri pull harder. 

Whatever Yuri sees in his face, he must like it, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Down,” he says, and it’s all Balthus can do not to wobble to his knees. “You ever sucked dick?”

“Never been with a girl who had one.” 

Yuri smiles, sharp as a knife. “Let’s hope you’re a quick learner.” Lavender and white musk tickle Balthus’s nostrils, warmed and spicy on Yuri’s skin. He’d bury his nose in the crook of Yuri’s neck if he could. Nestle and live there until it drowns him. With Yuri’s grip to guide him, he sinks to his knees instead, running his palms over the silky skirts and the lean muscle of Yuri’s thighs.

“Need help finding your way?” Yuri asks.

Balthus flips him off, rucking up the skirts to dive underneath. This part’s familiar enough. Soft skin, rougher at the knees, more delicate and sensitive the closer he edges to the groin. Lacy drawers. Fuck if Yuri ain’t thorough. Always expecting a rough wind. 

Did he expect _this_? Sometimes it pays not to ask. Better to put his mouth to the lace, dampening it under his tongue. Yuri’s dick juts stiff against his cheek, blood-hot under all the cloth. The strangeness of it is a low gut-punch, the lay-you-flat kind that tilts the arena and leaves you wheezing in the dust. It’s wire coiling in his belly, potent as triple-brewed whiskey. 

The skirts fall around him like curtains, dropping him down into the peaceful dark, enveloped in the hot, musky scent of a man up-close. Familiar, but not like this, without the sweat spike of a battle or a brawl. The drawers part, just the way they always do, enough he can set Yuri’s dick free. He’s all velvety soft here as well. Good thing—be fucking uncomfortable if a guy’s junk sprung calluses, right? 

Yuri’s hand tightens over his shoulder. Balthus wishes he could see his face right now. Wants to know if he can make a flush creep up those perfect porcelain cheeks or his breath catch. Next time, his treacherous brain pipes up, and yeah, okay, guess he’s game for a ‘next time.’ Assuming Yuri is and all. 

For the time being, he gets up close and personal, curling a loose hand round the base of Yuri’s dick. Dicks are easy. He’s got one of his own, rousing in sympathy, and while it’s been some years since a stiff breeze could get him off, Balthus still knows what feels good when someone else does it. He gets the head of it in his mouth, swirls his tongue around it, wet and messy, and those fingers tighten again, scrabbling. Balthus takes that as a good sign. It makes him bolder, kissing down the length of the shaft, licking salt from the skin. His own free hand rests on Yuri’s thigh, just holding him there, feeling the minute shivers.

“Good,” he hears faintly. “You’re doing so well, my friend.” And Balthus has never been good a day in his life, but praise hits him hard every time, right in the underbelly, and he groans, sucks in air too quick, and hopes Yuri won’t ask why.

He loses track of time, jaw getting pleasantly sore as he takes him in deeper on every pass. Different kind of sore from eating a girl’s pussy. Still gratifying as all getout. 

“Watch the teeth,” Yuri instructs him. Needlessly. It’s like he’s _asking_ Balthus to pull off of him and bite his sensitive inner thigh. Heh. Ask and he shall deliver. 

“Sassy.” Balthus can easily picture the curl of Yuri’s mouth. And maybe he’s flattering himself when he imagines Yuri’s own teeth digging into a plush lower lip, but the quiver of his thigh muscles under Balthus’s hand tells a similar tale. 

The skirts pull back just enough for Yuri’s hands to settle in his hair again, twisting and pulling. Yeah, that’s the good shit. Balthus sucks harder, feels Yuri starting to come apart in the spasm of his grip, before the hot, bitter fluid fills his mouth. Never gonna be his favorite taste, but the tiny moan Yuri tries to stifle is a different matter. Bone-deep satisfaction at the sound. 

“Get up here,” Yuri tells him, voice gone softer around the edges. Balthus stretches, pops his neck, sneaks a glance at what he’s wrought. Yuri sprawls back on the pillows. The flush in his cheeks is already starting to fade, though traces of it remain, enough to be gratifying. Skirts tangle and ride up around his knees as he makes room for Balthus. “You might just be a natural,” he says.

“What, like it’s hard?” Balthus blusters, then immediately coughs, putting lie to it. 

Yuri chuckles, tugging at Balthus’s shirt as soon as he’s within reach, and discarding it over the side of the bed once it’s off. Gown and underthings follow. Yuri’s smaller naked, yet somehow manages to take up more space. 

“Now then,” he says, rising to straddle Balthus, naked hips settling right over where he’s aching-hard in his breeches.

“Bedtime?” Balthus teases. Teases himself,more like, but it earns him a crinkle in Yuri’s nose, laugh lines creasing the corners of his eyes. 

“Didn’t think self-denial was your kink. Though if you want…” He moves, as though to get up, hand on Balthus’s chest where he’s sure to feel how fast his heart is hammering. 

“No way!”

“Too bad.” Yuri rolls off of him, and hops down from the bed. He pads barefoot over the carpet to the bag of makeup sundries he’s left on the vanity. “Well?” he says, with a backwards glance at Balthus. “Pants off.”

Belatedly, Balthus fumbles with the laces of his boots. He’s made the mistake of starting with the breeches before, when he was younger and dumber. All that earned him was a pratfall and a previously-nervous girl’s pealing laughter. Worth it, in the end. “Aren’tcha gonna watch?” he tells Yuri, fiddling with the laces.

“I’m watching,” Yuri says, quiet. And sure enough, his hooded eyes are hot enough to sear holes right through to Balthus’s bones. He snags a vial and turns back to the bed. 

Boots off, Balthus makes a show of the rest of it. He knows he’s a sight; worked his ass off to make sure of it. Palms his dick on the way for a bit of relief. Poor bastard’s been hard enough to drill—hell if Balthus can even tell how long anymore—and now that Yuri’s all naked skin for days, toned ass and whipcord thighs, so much Balthus can’t wait to get his hands back all over. Well. You can’t blame a guy for panting after him. 

Yuri grins bright and feral when he first claps eyes on the goods. See, there’s two kindsa people, in Balthus’s experience: ones who see his dick and go ‘no fucking way,’ and ones who swallow hard and spark all over, as if to say, ‘fuck if I know if it’ll fit, but it’s going in me _somewhere_.’ Should’ve figured Yuri for the latter sort, but _dang_. Hell and all the Saints. 

In a flash, Yuri’s back on the bed with him, biting his lips, manicured nails digging into his biceps. Close proximity at long last, opportunity for Balthus to grab sweet handfuls of his ass as Yuri groans into his mouth, and Balthus can’t help it, beaming like an idiot around both their tongues. 

He scoots back to make room, sitting up against the bedstead while Yuri pulls away long enough to unstopper the vial, spilled oil glistening on his fingers. Must be the stuff he mixes into a cream to remove his paints. Balthus watches his face as he reaches behind himself, the rise and fall of his chest, the line of his throat as he swallows, the way his lips part on a puff of air and sound. The way his thighs flex. Seiros’s tits, Yuri’s legs are even longer like this, spread wide open over him. 

“Going to need more,” Yuri says with a rueful downward glance. “Here, your hands are bigger than mine. You’ll do. Have you—?”

“Fucked someone in the ass? You bet. Handy way to keep from knocking ‘em up.” He smooths a hand over Yuri’s flank. “Taken it once or twice, too.” Oh, Balthus is gonna _savor_ that look of surprise on Yuri’s face. “What? Didn’t figure I’d go for the kinda gal with a dick in her purse?”

“With your tastes?” Yuri purses his lips. “No, you’re right. I should have factored that in.” Mirth dances in his eyes, lending his face a deeper glow. “Well, since you’re such an expert…”

“Gonna let me take charge?” Balthus tenses his hip, set to roll ‘em, if that’s where Yuri’s whims take the night. 

Yuri traces his lower lip with a single clean finger. “Keep dreaming.” He sounds so smug Balthus won’t try and tell him he actually prefers it this way. Not that Yuri hasn’t put that together already, he must’ve. Nor does it stop Balthus from nipping the offending finger as he reaches for the oil, or curling his tongue over it in unneeded apology. 

His fingers bump against Yuri’s as he works them inside him. Slow and steady at first, but steady does the trick, and even Balthus’s fingers can be, well, a _lot_. An impatient noise stutters and blooms into a moan as Yuri shuffles back to try and take him deeper. His fingers twist hard, ruthless and sure, setting the pace and expecting Balthus to follow. “I can feel your pulse,” Balthus says, and Yuri laughs, short and quiet, and that’s even better. Tight muscle softens to his touch, and Yuri’s hand is on his dick, slippery with oil, and then Yuri’s pulling back, hissing through his teeth as he lines them up...

The heat of him is stunning. That’s all Balthus feels for one long moment, as every sensation spirals in on him in a long, slow slide. Yuri’s _tight_ , so tight Balthus could swallow his tongue. Almost too tight to move in, which is probably good, or else Balthus would probably come right the hell now. 

He forces himself to breathe, a shaky, ragged gulp of air—and the sight of Yuri above him takes his breath away all over again. He’s got his head thrown back, baring his throat. Sweaty strands of hair stick to his face, catch in the glitter of his powder. His eyes are wild, like this is more than he can take, but not enough to stop him. 

“Fuck,” Balthus says, voice stuck somewhere deep in the recesses of his chest. His hands shake as he reaches for Yuri. No reason that he can name, save that touching him still feels all kinds of unreal against all evidence, dreamlike as Balthus’s fingers splay over the scars scraped across his sternum. Yuri whimpers, low, almost a sob, as he takes the last few inches of Balthus’s dick and sags shivering in his arms while Balthus rubs his back in tiny circles. “Yeah, that’s it,” Balthus murmurs encouragingly. “You got this.” 

Yuri huffs. “Thanks for your vote of confidence.” 

“I mean it,” Balthus protests. 

It doesn’t take long for Yuri’s thighs to flex. Less than an inch of lift, agonizingly intense, then sinking again, testing, making room inside himself. Rise and fall, and he’s panting with it, lips wet, eyes squeezed shut. He swallows, shudders on an inhale. 

“Hands on my hips,” he tells Balthus. Doesn’t take a genius to catch on. Easier to move, with Balthus’s strength holding him up. 

Balthus does as he’s told. Waist, ass, hips, shifting around ‘til he’s got him. Yuri barely weighs anything at all like this. Still doing all the work, really—easier with a little friendly help is all. 

“Harder,” Yuri orders through gritted teeth. Balthus digs in his fingers and Yuri groans. “Just like that.” Not quite a rhythm yet, but they’re moving together, Yuri pushing himself up, and Balthus lifting, and gravity following through for the finish. Yuri’s back arches, and his nails bite into Balthus’s thighs, and he _rides_ , hard and unrelenting. “Feeling good yet?”

Like that’s even a question! “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Balthus counters.

Yuri makes a rude noise, effect ruined as he moans. “Two of us here, aren’t there?” A simple enough statement, but it lodges deep in Balthus’s belly, hooks something in his gut and lingers there. 

“Your point,” he says, and Yuri laughs. 

“Still not a competition.” 

“Whatever you say, boss,” Balthus says, and thrusts up inside him, the way his dick’s been begging him to do for what feels like ages.

“Fu-uck!” Yuri’s voice all but breaks around the word, hissing and rattling before rising again. Balthus takes it as encouragement to keep moving as Yuri comes down hard on top of him. 

“You feel amazing,” Balthus tells him. “Fuck, the way you squeeze around me… You take it so good, you’re perfect.” He half expects a brush-off, a witty rejoinder, a smirked ‘of course.’ The noise Yuri makes instead sears itself forever into the crooks of Balthus’s ear canals; snuggles up and comes to live inside his mind. 

Yuri starts talking again the moment he recovers his footing, a gentle, sideways, devastatingly effective soft of revenge. “I want to fuck you next time. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Hell yeah!” _Next time._ Balthus’s brain fixates on those two words, as some scrabbly part of him unhitches. 

“I won’t play nice with you, either. You did say you liked it rough.” Yuri’s voice turns husky, seductive and fucked-out in equal measure. “ _How_ rough? You certainly seem to like it when I scratch you up. When I pull your hair…” His movements slow as he rises, just the tip of Balthus’s dick still inside him. “Would you beg me to stripe your ass with a cane? Or paint you all pretty with drips of candle wax?”

Balthus groans. “Who says I’d beg?” His dick pulses inside Yuri, giving the game away. Shit, but he has a type. That woman he saw across the bar room, with her sharp heels, and her sharp smile. Hell if he didn’t recognize something in her; scratchy broken-off threads of all the girls who’ve made him grin and scream and come his daylights out. And that’s threads of Yuri, too, isn’t it? Reality woven right into the act. That’s why he’s so good at what he does. 

“You’d beg,” Yuri says, and slams back down, and Balthus’s world goes roaring-white with pleasure. 

When he blinks back into focus, heavy-limbed and heavy-lidded, Yuri’s hand is on his own dick. “Lemme…” Balthus slurs, and moves however sluggishly to help him out. _This time,_ he thinks. _This time I get to see you come apart._ He watches as Yuri grinds back against him, the faint tremors building in his arms and thighs, the heaving of his breath. “I’ve gotcha.” 

Yuri ducks his head, like he wants to look away, then shudders feverishly and meets Balthus’s eyes. He clenches down around Balthus’s oversensitive dick as he comes, tight enough to be painful, spilling stripes of white over both their chests and bellies, echoes of the promised canes and candles. 

He’s a little louder this time. Not much, but enough to count. Makes sense. Everyone’s louder when getting plowed, even Yuri, who plans for every storm and strand of hair come loose. Not the easiest thing, kissing in this position, but Balthus is big enough to manage it, straining up to steal the last of Yuri’s moans with his mouth, the tiny grunt as he works himself free. Balthus gathers him up, lets him sprawl on top of him as his legs give out. Yuri mutters something indistinct, a balm to his wounded dignity like as not, but he stays put regardless, his back sweat-slick and warm under Balthus’s callused hands. 

For the longest time, neither of them speaks. Yuri’s the first to find his tongue again. Of course he is. “Ugh. Words cannot describe how disgusting we must be right now.” Fair enough—he’s the one with jizz dripping down his thighs, after all. 

“Bath?” Balthus suggests. “I could carry you.”

Yuri flops face-first into a stray pillow. “As long as it’s not me carrying you.” He leans over the side of the bed to examine his discarded dress at long last. “This will want a wash as well.”

“Will you need it again soon?” Balthus asks. 

Yuri shakes his head. “Not for business, at least. Though with a response like that, I’m tempted to give it an encore.” He pauses, frowns, mouth twisting at the taste of his own words. “As I was saying, you seemed quite motivated at the sight.” 

“This…” Balthus looks away. “Didn’t make it weird, right?”

Yuri scoffs, a little forced. “We’re outlaws, Balthus,” he says. “We fuck whoever we want to, however we want to. That includes friends, I would hope.” 

_How many friends have you actually bedded?_ Balthus wonders. More than zero, probably. Can’t possibly be enough, brittle-edged as he is. “Friends who’ll don fancy gear for you? That’s a hell of a thing, boss.” 

“Like that summer uniform you promised me?” Yuri says with an innocent expression. 

_Has_ Balthus promised him that? He can’t recall. His brain might’ve melted out his ears. He grins anyway. “Yeah, just like that.” 

“So accommodating.” Yuri’s fingers dance along his chest, something wistful and sharp in his expression. “Look, I…” He swallows whatever it is he wanted to say. Balthus waits. 

“I sleep with a knife under my pillow,” Yuri says at long last. He’s telling the truth, Balthus knows that for a fact. He’s seen the blade for himself one twitchy night or two. But Yuri’s not just talking about knives, is he?

“I don’t,” Balthus tells him. “Got my fists for that. Never know when someone’s coming for you, am I right?” 

Yuri nods, relieved. Satisfied, like maybe he thinks Balthus got it, whatever he was trying to say. And maybe he does, a little sideways. 

“Haven’t stabbed me yet,” Balthus says. “Not even when we shared that dorm room.” Not even while lashing out, head-deep in a nightmare. Yuri’s a lot more careful than he thinks he is, and Balthus has never seen him spew friendly fire. 

“Not planning on it,” Yuri says with only a smidgeon of irony, and it makes Balthus’s heart hurt, the whole bittersweet package of him. 

“Punch you again if you do?” he ventures. 

“Like you could land a hit on me,” says a man who’s literally already gotten punched once. But the melancholy is clearing again, and Yuri yawns, going languid. “I’ll hold you to it,” he says. 

“Deal.” Balthus holds out his hand, but instead of a handshake, Yuri pulls him closer of his own volition, brushing hot lips against his temple. 

“Deal,” he echoes, and it sounds an awful lot like ‘don’t go,’ or perhaps ‘don’t let go of me.’ So Balthus doesn’t. Wasn’t planning on it anyway. Not until Yuri’s done with him, or wants that bath after all, whichever comes first. Probably the bath. They really are pretty gross. _Either way,_ Balthus thinks. _I’m not going anywhere._

And if he’s in too deep, so fucking what? This is Yuri, the master of dragging a guy way out of his depths and leaving him all the better for it. He won’t pretend he’s seen all his faces, all masks and disguises and roles. But he’s seen the naked skin underneath, peeking through the plaster, and Yuri’s got a lot more of it showing than he thinks he does. And everything Balthus has seen, he likes. 

Someday he’ll tell him as much. Maybe Yuri would even believe him. Well, he can dream, a long-shot cause of his own, rising like a silent fire in his blood. Until then, he’ll bury his face in Yuri’s hair, breathing in sweat and lavender, and the shaky certainty that he’s truly welcome here. He’ll close his eyes and quiet the beating of his heart into a better rhythm.

**Author's Note:**

> Been working on this, on and off, since August. And yet, coming up with a summary felt like it took about that long. Enjoy!
> 
> As always, thanks to [Letterblade](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade) for beta. <3


End file.
